


Echo Chamber

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Adjacent [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Neighbors, Showers, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:57:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: When Greg starts singing in the shower, he's startled to realise the man in the next flat also sings. They forge a strange connection through the medium of their tiled walls.





	Echo Chamber

**Author's Note:**

> While sorting out my prompts this weekend (that's a thing, right?) I realised I have almost a dozen prompts that begin 'we live next door and...' The logical response of course is to start a series based on the premise, so here's the first: 'We live next door and our showers share a wall...we sing duets sometimes'.

Greg couldn’t help it – Les Miserables was his jam. He’d discovered it when Googling random stuff, one of the first nights alone in his new flat. It was a nice flat – far nicer than he thought he’d be able to afford – but still sterile and empty. He’d watched the entire tenth anniversary concert without a break, entranced. There was a song for every mood, he found; every mood a recently divorced workaholic might have, at least. The newly purchased CD lived in his player, songs selected for their determined spirit or heart wrenching angst as circumstances required.

It was natural the songs would bleed over into his shower time. He found himself humming the overture, occasionally breaking into a chorus of ‘I Dreamed A Dream’ or ‘Red and Black’. He fancied that his voice wasn’t terrible, and the echo off the tiles certainly made him sound more impressive. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly boisterous he’d begin the Confrontation, taking both Javert and Valjean’s parts for as long as possible, until the lyrics overlapped too much for a single voice.

It was frustrating, that his favourite song was too difficult for a single person. He needed another man, the thought prompting a wry smile. _In more than one way_.

One morning as he reached for the shampoo, pondering the possibility of recording one part to play while he sang the other, a sound made him freeze. Someone was singing. More than that, someone was singing Les Mis in a clear tenor on the other side of his shower wall.

Fuck. Did his bathroom share a wall with the next flat? Greg felt himself flush as he realised that if he could hear this guy, his own efforts would have been equally audible. Christ, he’d never be able to look that bloke in the eye again. Not that he ever had of course – hadn’t had a lot of time for socialising since moving in. A vague notion of a great suit and red hair…

Greg listened to the rest of ‘Stars’, entranced by the voice. When it ended he’d barely washed himself at all. The silence rang, and he wondered what to do now. Should he applaud? Say something? What if it was a coincidence, or just another guy who happened to like Les Mis? No, he should just finish his shower and get on with his day. The possibility of another song tomorrow barely crossed his mind.

Well that wasn’t strictly true. Underneath the thoughts about work and lunch and ‘if I run I can make the tube’ was a constant flow of thoughts about the songs, the singer and the meaning of it all. By the end of the day, Greg was exhausted. He’d finally accepted that he would never get all his paperwork finished today, and tomorrow would be largely catch-up, crossing his fingers nothing new crossed his desk.

As it was he arrived home needing Scotch and a shower, possibly simultaneously. Accordingly Greg poured himself a drink, stuffed his clothes straight into the washing machine and walked through to the bathroom.

When his eyes settled on the shower, he paused. Sipping from his glass, Greg considered the likelihood that his neighbour would be home and in his bathroom. Was he audible from the rest of the flat? There was no way to tell, and Greg was oddly disappointed that he might miss a performance from the other side of the wall. This morning might not even have been the first time.

Shrugging, he turned on the water and the exhaust fan, setting his glass on the basin within reach. As soon as he felt the water across his shoulders, Greg relaxed, the heat flowing into his sore muscles. The scent of his shampoo made him uneasy, and he realised it was the silence that was jarring. The link between showering and singing was now ingrained in him; one required the other. Suddenly nervous, he gulped at his Scotch, wincing at the tinge of soap he licked from one lip.

What song felt right today? He’d had a pretty average day at work, that much was true. He didn’t feel tired now though. This, this tenuous strand of _maybe_ was exciting. He wanted to sing something hopeful. Not a lot of Les Mis leant itself to that emotion, but there was one song he liked…

Clearing his throat, Greg brushed aside the nerves and started to sing, ‘Red and Black’, a rousing call to revolution, to action. He sang all the parts as usual; in his mind they all sounded different as each character sang. He wondered if he had an audience. It was odd not to know. He was far more conscious of his middling voice, of the notes that hit the very edge of his range. As the song drew to a close, Greg wondered if the weaknesses in his voice were so evident through a wall.

Self-consciously Greg finished washing himself. He felt a smile drawing over his mouth as he thought about the man potentially on the other side of the wall. It was like a greeting, a shy response to the overture he’d heard through the barrier.

 _Hello_ , he thought tentatively. _I heard you._ The thought curled warm in his belly.

The call pulled him out of sleep at a truly offensive hour. In the few moments he spent brushing his teeth, Greg’s eyes strayed to the bathroom wall. He hoped his neighbour was the tenacious type; there was no way he’d hear a song at any reasonable hour this morning. Shooting a silent apology, Greg left his flat, mind now mostly on the scene he would soon be attending.

As soon as he arrived home, fifteen hours later, Greg hit the shower, not even thinking about the possibility of a man on the other side.

Until a voice started singing the first lines of ‘The Confrontation’. A duet. For two men. The one Greg had been frustratedly not finishing for weeks.

As Javert’s part finished, Greg’s heart fluttered in his chest. He cleared his throat, taking on Valjean’s part, hardly able to hear his duet partner over the water, his own voice and the thumping pulse in his ear. When they reached the end he was still, wondering again what to do now. He stood until the water grew cool, then quietly collected a towel and went about his evening far more at peace than when he’d come in.

+++

Over the next few weeks, Greg and his neighbour found a rhythm. It was almost intimate, Greg thought, knowing that most mornings the man in the next flat was in the shower between 5.30 and 6am. His usual morning time was a little later, but he had adjusted happily enough, eager to continue the strange communication. Sometimes he sang, or he would listen for the other man to begin – whomever arrived first would generally sing. Occasionally it was a duet, not always. There was a distinctive clank in the pipe when either of them started the water; he had not noticed until it became so important to know if the shower next door was occupied. The rush of water in his shower brought with it a shot of adrenalin; he could not decide if he preferred to sing or be sung to.

They had broadened their repertoire a little; Greg was fascinated with each new song his neighbour offered. He felt like he was seeing a piece of the other man’s soul. Conscious of how much he saw in the songs his counterpart chose, Greg spent more time than he cared to admit considering the new songs he might sing, the parts of himself he wanted to reveal. It was far more intimate than many of his face to face relationships, this anonymous interaction, and Greg found it becoming more and more important to his schedule.

Not to mention the fact that sometimes, eyes closed, breath coming fast, the hand full of shampoo would venture lower and Greg’s hand would be stroking himself to the sound of the voice from the other side of the shower. As he came against the wall, relief was mixed with shame – at this, his most personal relationship – and overwhelming loneliness. For all he felt he was getting to know the man with the tenor voice, Greg wanted nothing more than to be held by a partner as he fell asleep. Difficult to do from the next flat, to Greg’s growing disappointment.

+++

The Kitchener murder was as bad as the papers made out. Greg had barely stopped for almost a week, showering at work, ducking out to M & S for clean pants and shirts and socks. The bastard had taken out two young constables in his bid for freedom; only their flak vests had saved their lives, but both were shaken, and Greg had been furious. It had been up to Sally to read him his right, pulling him in, keeping Greg out of it.

“Go home, boss,” she’d told him flat, and he hadn’t argued. Too tired. Too angry at people, at the futile work he did to keep the streets safe, only for people like Kitchener to trample all over it. He’d dragged his feet up the steps to his flat, leaning hard against the wall as he scrabbled for his keys, taking several goes to open the lock.

_I need a shower._

No, that wasn’t true. Leaning against his kitchen table, head dropping with exhaustion and defeat, Greg admitted it to himself.

_I need a song._

He’d come to rely on the simple, honest interaction with his neighbour, the odd bond they’d formed as they sang to each other through their shared wall. Christ, it was mad. How the hell could he ever explain it to anyone? Not that it mattered. It was early in the morning, still dark out, and Greg blinked at the clock on his phone. 4.57am. Too early. His heart dropped; he could weep for the disappointment. He stumbled to the bathroom and relieved himself, the seat of the toilet clanging down as his clumsy fingers lost their purchase. Hands washed, he sat on the closed lid, head lowered, burning eyes closed.

The silence was deafening. An oxymoron, his brain supplied. Not helpful, he told himself. As he contemplated his options – shower, sleep, Scotch – a sound came through the wall.

A clank of pipes, a rush of water.

Greg blinked at the wall, his brain taking long moments to make meaning.

There was someone in the shower on the other side of the wall.

Hands suddenly shaking, he unbuttoned his shirt, shed his clothes to the floor before turning on his own taps and stepping under the water. Head bowed, eyes closed against the stinging hot spray. The few breaths he took were little more than sobs as he waited for the song to begin.

 _Please,_ he thought weakly. _Please…_

It was tentative, and with a shock, Greg recognised the tune as something far different to the tenor’s usual repertoire. This was a question. A message. Relief flowed through his veins. He leaned against the wall, forehead against the cold tiles as the words washed over him. He imagined he could feel the tile vibrating in time with the lyrics, directly into his mind.

_Lean on me, when you’re not strong…_

How did he know? Greg was too tired to know, and his brain worked slowly to find a response. It wasn’t perfect, but when the chorus finished and his bathroom was quiet, he drew a long, shaking breath and began the first song he’d thought of.

Les Mis was his jam, after all.

The truth of the words he was singing cut close to his heart, and he closed his eyes as the words pulled on him.

_At the end of the day you’re another day older, and that’s all you can say for the life of the poor...._

It wasn’t quite right – he was hardly poor – but he was sure the other man would understand. It was about pointlessness, hopelessness. He made it through two verses before his voice faltered and he stopped, embarrassment flooding through him at the thought of the admission he’d just made. Christ, he’ll think I’m such a loser…

Almost without pause, the response came, strong and clear. Some of the lyrics had been changed – it was one man singing to another rather than a man singing to a woman – but the sentiment still brought tears to his eyes. He closed them, the joy of Marius finding his love bleeding through the wall with the lyrics of the song.

_In my life, he has burst like the music of angels; the light of the sun, and my life seems to stop..._

Greg couldn’t believe someone was singing this. To him. The declaration of love at first sight, and from Les Mis of all things. Tears spilled down his cheeks as the song moved on, laughter bubbling up as lyrics were replaced with ‘dah-dah’s as he had done. The most important words, they were still there, to swirl around him in the fog.

_In my life, there is someone who touches my life, waiting near, waiting here…_

Greg knew his mouth was hanging open, realising his unspoken desire was coming true, right here and now. His heart started pounding as the song drew to a close. He would have to reply. What on earth could he…and the answer was there, perfect, as though written all those years ago for this precise moment. Wiping his face, breathing deeply to steady his voice, Greg opened his mouth, heart pounding. He would know in a moment if he had interpreted the message correctly. Hesitantly, he began the duet, taking Marius’ part.

_I did not live until today, how can I live when we are parted?_

Voice ringing on the tiles he stopped, waiting for the response. Please, please…

Finally, it began; the response he had been hoping for.

_Tomorrow you’ll be worlds away, and yet with you, my world has started_

“Fuck,” Greg whispered.

He was in.

What now? Was it up to him now? Should he go over there, knock on the door? Or would there be a knock on his door in a moment as his counterpart took the plunge?

As the silence drew on, he was locked in his indecision. He had to do something…

Before he could make a choice, cursing his slow brain, the beginning of a song came through the wall once more. He listened for a moment before the laughter burbled up at the ridiculous, perfect, gorgeous choice. The man was remarkable. How had he known Greg needed something a little absurd, to draw him gently away from his overwhelming emotion?

Greg shut off the water, joining into the end of the first verse.

_I will feel a glow just thinking of you, and the way you look tonight._

They sang through the rest of the standard, warmth blooming through Greg at each new thought his tired brain managed to form.

_He knew I liked jazz standards. He replied to my Les Mis song with another – he knows it well, as I do._

He dried himself with shaking hands, pulling on pants and jeans and an old t shirt without regard for decorum. He was going over there, right now, and he wasn’t even nervous. It was right, maybe the most right thing he’d ever done.

Knocking on the neighbouring door was odd.

It wasn’t until now, waiting for an answer, that Greg began to feel edgy. This was the most ridiculous scenario he could even imagine, and yet here he was, knocking on the door of the man he’d been singing through a wall to for weeks. He was tired, exhausted even, but nervous energy was thrumming through his veins at this unexpected shift in their relationship. If it could be said that they had a relationship…

The lock clicked and Greg’s heart stopped. When the door began to swing open his heart started again, thudding hard against his ribs.

“Good morning,” the man said, his smile nervous but genuine.

“Good morning,” Greg replied. When his host stepped back, inviting him in, Greg felt like it was a huge milestone, stepping over the threshold. He followed the other man down his hall and into the small sitting room; the layout mirrored his own flat. Slightly disconcerting – but Greg’s attention wasn’t on the flat.

“Greg Lestrade,” he said quietly, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” came the reply. His hand was soft, long pale fingers wrapped in Greg’s palm.

“Thank you,” Greg said, shoving his hands in his pocket, knowing he looked nervous but not caring. He was bloody nervous, and he’d call Mycroft a liar if he claimed otherwise.

“For what?” Mycroft asked.

Greg grinned at him. “This morning, for one,” he said, the mirth fading from his expression as he thought about the reason for his mood when he’d arrived home. He frowned. “How did you know…”

“I work primarily from home, and I do not sleep a lot,” Mycroft said, his cheeks colouring. “I must admit I have become accustomed to the rhythm of the building, and when you did not return all week…I noticed.”

“Right,” Greg said.

“Your footsteps as you arrived were slower and heavier than usual, and it took you a long time to unlock your door,” Mycroft continued, the pale pink deepening into red. “I had missed our…interactions and given the early hour and your obvious employment in the police force, I predicted you would want a shower. I waited in my bathroom until I heard you in there.”

“That’s amazing,” Greg whispered, blinking slowly. The fatigue was catching up with him, despite this remarkable situation. “I was so glad you were there.”

“I thought you might need some…support,” Mycroft told him quietly. “I admit I had to Google appropriate songs to express friendship.”

Greg wanted to smile but his face wouldn’t move the way he wanted to. “I was more glad to hear the rest,” he whispered. “I’m sorry…I’m quite tired.” He felt himself sway a little and added, “The singing took it out of me.” It was the emotional toll more than anything, but he didn’t have the words right now.

“May I…perhaps you would like to sleep. Here, with me,” Mycroft suggested. His voice wasn’t sure at all, and Greg’s tired mind did the only thing that made sense. It directed Greg’s legs to walk over to Mycroft, and his arms to loop around his waist, and his lips to press against Mycroft’s. Greg felt the hum of contentment vibrate through his chest as Mycroft’s startled response melted into reciprocation, arms coming around his waist, holding him close.

They stood there a long time, Greg thought, though his sense of time was distorted by the rolling fatigue. He knew he felt things shifting, but it wasn’t until Mycroft started quietly singing the same song they’d shared in the shower that he realised it was a deliberate shift.

They were dancing, moving in time as Mycroft sang to him. In person this time, arms cradling him, no plasterwork or tiles to hide them. He felt the words as Mycroft breathed, as the vibrations pushed through one chest wall to the other.

_Someday, when I’m awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you, and the way you look tonight…_

The song was long and slow, drawing out as Mycroft crooned the lyrics as though he was speaking truths from his own heart. When they finally finished, Greg sighed.

“Bed?” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg nodded, content to be led by Mycroft. It felt as natural as breathing to be helped into Mycroft’s bed, to have Mycroft climb in after him and hold him close.

 _He is perfect_ , thought Greg drowsily. _I wonder how he knew I’m a copper?_

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here are some links for your listening pleasure.
> 
>  
> 
> [Les Miserables 10th Anniversary Performance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZG-gojr493E)
> 
>  
> 
> [The Way You Look Tonight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dIW_Ah0wg-w)


End file.
